


impulse control

by hellbeast



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Crack, Fluff and Crack, Gen, Grocery Shopping, M/M, Sam's superpower is knowing when Steve gets himself into stupid ass situations, Steve's superpower is the inability to go two minutes without getting into some shit, did you know that sam and steve are Married™? it's wild
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-02
Updated: 2017-05-02
Packaged: 2018-10-27 02:28:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10799790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellbeast/pseuds/hellbeast
Summary: Sam isn’t quite sure when he became the literal embodiment of Steve Rogers’ impulse control, but it’s starting to get a little ridiculous.





	impulse control

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Unclesteeb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unclesteeb/gifts).



For all the time that Sam and Steve spend together, they’re not in each other’s pockets 24/7. Sam is currently at Starbuck’s, waiting for his latte. Steve is, last that Sam knew, out on a routine mission. The kind of in-and-out, lackluster D-list villain thing that Steve could probably handle blindfolded.

A harried-looking barista calls Sam’s name, and Sam gives them a smile and a nod as he takes his drink. He makes his way towards the door, lifting the cup to his mouth and—

Pauses.

There’s this feeling, you see, that Sam gets sometimes. Not quite a clench of the lungs, not quite a lurch of the gut. He used to get the same feeling back with Riley. It might as well be a superpower.

“My dumbass white boy sense is tingling,” Sam murmurs into his coffee, even as he fishes his phone out of his jacket pocket. Goddamn Steve.

The line rings twice, and then—

“Sam!” Steve sounds chipper, which immediately validates the queasy turn of Sam’s everything. Sam can pretty much _hear_ the forced smile.

“Hey Steve,” Sam says, casual, taking a sip of his latte. “What are you up to?”

He’s asking for the sake of asking. His gut already damn well knows what Steve is up to. At some point, Sam is probably going to resort to wearing the EXO wing pack at all times. That, or he’s going to get a stress ulcer. It could honestly go either way.

“Oh, you know,” Steve replies, and Sam almost doesn’t hear the wobble in his voice. Almost. “I’m just. Hangin’ out. What about you, baby?”

Steve only falls back on calling Sam pet names when he knows he’s fucked up.

Sam sighs. “You’re thirty seconds from death, aren’t you.”

It’s not a question. Maybe it would’ve been, a couple months ago. But by now, Sam is just wondering how quickly he can convince someone to come pick him up in a quinjet. Steve laughs, a little breathlessly, which might as well be a loud, resounding ‘YES’.

There’s a pause. Sam can hear wind whistling, and very pointedly does not think about how far Steve is about to fall off of something.

Steve clears his throat, which is another huge tell, and inquires, sheepishly: “… So, uh, how fast can you get here?”

* * *

It’s really kind of absurd. Sam can’t leave Steve alone for _anything_.

Case in point: It’s been a week and a half since Sam barely managed to tackle Steve out of a nine hundred foot vertical drop. Sam is still a little upset about the whole thing, considering he had to throw himself out of the quinjet to do it, and even then, they both came far too close to the ground for comfort. Clint had assured him that the whole thing had looked completely badass, but Sam is still stuck on the fact that Steve had somehow gotten himself into the position of nearly falling _nine hundred feet_ in the first place. What the _hell_ , Steve.

Steve, of course, has been nothing but bright eyes and adoring looks ever since. It’s flattering, but Sam refuses to be moved. Nine. Hundred. Feet.

So. They’re taking the week off, while Sam’s aches fade, and also so that, _maybe_ , Steve will stop _almost dying_. They’re in Giant, because Sam needs groceries, especially if they’re both going to be home. They’re in line for checkout number six. Fortunately, it looks like a pretty slow day; there aren’t too many people around and the lines are relatively short.

“Shoot,” Sam says, looking over his list one last time. “I forgot the eggs. I’ll be right back, okay?”

Steve smiles and nods, leaning on their cart and looking totally at ease. There’s still an old lady and her fifty-odd canned goods between their cart and the cashier, so Sam should be good on time. Lord knows there’s nothing as anxiety-inducing as being stuck at the register and waiting on somebody.

Sam can admit that he _maybe_ spends a little more time than in necessary dithering on the choice between white eggs and brown eggs, but it’s a very important decision. In the end, he gets two cartons of both, and another pack of hickory-smoked bacon just in case. 

It takes him less than two minutes, okay? Less than two minutes.

He gets back to the front of the store and it’s turned into a damned war zone: there are carts overturned, food spilled across the floor. Entire movie displays and kiosks knocked over. Steve is punching the cashier from lane four in the nose.

“What.” Sam says blankly. Goddamn _Steve_.

“Hail Hydra!” The cashier from lane nine bellows, right before Steve kicks him in the chest.

Well, that clears one thing up. Sam puts the eggs and bacon in their cart, thankfully still upright, and ducks a punch from cashier number seven, throwing an elbow into cashier number two’s throat as he springs back up. The PA system is still playing something bright and poppy.

“I was gone for _two minutes_ , Steve!” Sam yells, because _seriously_. The cashiers are Hydra agents. So is, apparently, the little old white lady who was in front of them. Either that, or she’s just as pissed as Sam is that her supposedly normal shopping trip has turned into a total shitfest, courtesy of one Steven Grant Rogers.

“It wasn’t my fault this time!” Steve protests, laying one of the cashiers flat on their ass. The little old lady is lobbing her cans at Steve’s head and he looks acutely discomfited as he dodges.

“ _Two minutes_ ,” Sam reiterates, because it needs to be said. He takes down the last of the cashiers with a palm strike to the face. “How is it that every time I turn my head, you get up to more stupid shit?”

“I’m not doing it on purpose, Sam.” Steve argues. Sam crosses his arms, but doesn’t say anything. They both turn to regard the scene.

The old lady has run out of cans. There are at least eight cashiers lying on the ground, groaning or unconscious. Steve’s shirt is stained with… something.

“Please tell me you didn’t break the eggs,” Sam says, falling to lean back against the conveyor belt. This is his life now. Fighting Nazis in a goddamn Giant.

Steve pulls his shirt to sniff at it, and then frowns. “Nah. I think someone hit me with the chicken breast, though.”

The nearest candy display topples over with a sad clatter.

Sam sighs.

**Author's Note:**

> this too is unclesteeb's fault
> 
> hmu on [tumblr](http://manymouths.tumblr.com)


End file.
